


Beneath your wings

by daughterofshadows



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Gratuitous abuse of brackets and cursive, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mpreg, Wingfic, implied infidelity, self-neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 01:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daughterofshadows/pseuds/daughterofshadows
Summary: Gil-Galad hid his wings from the world since they were proof of his father’s infidelity. But then a young half-elf comes to his court, one who finds comfort in the familiar colours of his uncle and Gil realises that maybe having the wings of the firstborn of Fëanor isn’t always bad. In which Gil-Galad is Fingon’s and Maedhros’ son, with wings that look like Maedhros’ and maybe the other elves aren't happy about that, but Elrond is.





	Beneath your wings

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the span of three hours after ending a skype call. I have no idea what happened, this story just needed to be written.

One’s wings were a point of pride for an elf. They were displayed proudly during parties, were both weapon and shield in battle and the only ones who would ever be allowed to touch them were your immediate family. _(Not that he had much of that in the first place. His family had been broken apart before it ever had a chance to grow.)_

Ereinion hated his wings. He hated how the other elves whispered behind his back, about infidelity and his poor, poor mother. How dare her husband betray her with his cousin? Come back with the child of a kinslayer and have her claim it as hers when the lie was so painfully obvious? And how Ereinion was clearly cursed, having the wings of a murderer. _(They forgot that most of them were murderers at this point. To stay alive in this world, lives needed to be taken. Be it orcs or otherwise.)_

By the time Turgon died and he ascended the throne, Ereinion hadn’t shown his wings in public for centuries and only rarely allowed himself a quiet moment in his rooms to spread out the mass of ruby red feathers interspersed with black here and there. _(He was told his father was a sight to behold on the battlefield. A beacon of fire and fury. Years later, he would earn the name Firebird and Elrond would whisper that they would have been proud.)_

The years of neglect showed. His wings were a mess. Unkempt, with feathers bent and broken and the red barely visible under layers of dirt and dried blood from when he had ripped feathers out by the handful. It had been a bad day indeed and he had been too trapped in his mind to realise what he was doing. _(Some people just didn’t know when to keep silent. And sometimes even Cirdan’s quiet reassurances that his wings didn’t define who he was, that they didn’t dictate his path, weren’t enough. Not when there were people in court screaming for his execution.)_

Ereinion knew, knew, knew, that he should take better care of his wings, that they didn’t deserve to be in this state. He could still hear his father’s voice softly telling him stories while combing his wings. How even on the ice, he and his siblings would always make sure to groom each other regularly, even when it seemed like they wouldn’t see the next day. But his father was dead now and so were his siblings and there was no time, no time, no time! Not when Ereinion had a hundred other things to worry about. _(Like the Silmaril in Sirion. Brought by the Sindar fleeing from Doriath. Why, why, why could his family not stop killing each other? Hadn’t enough people died already for these bloody stones?)_

Sirion was burning and he was too late. He hadn’t believed Elwing would be so foolish, hadn’t believed she would risk her people’s lives, her children’s lives so carelessly. And now she was gone, her sons nowhere to be found and hundreds dead, thousands homeless. All because she had fallen prey to the Silmaril’s call. _(When Ereinion first saw the new star in the night sky, he was relieved. At least one of them was now out of reach.)_

 

Elrond didn’t remember what his parents’ wings looked like. He had no memory of his father’s soft voice and his mother’s gentle hands. What he did remember was fire and screams and the all-encompassing fear, that left him paralysed and shaking in turns, while he and Elros hid in a tiny cave behind a waterfall, barely big enough to fit two six-year-olds. _(This night would haunt his nightmares for years to come, only fading after he had lived through greater tragedies and memories of gruesome battles, with people dead by his sword, his clothes soaked in their blood and so many lost friends, replaced his childhood terrors.)_

They were found. They were found by the oldest sons of Fëanor, the last ones alive. Elrond would later realise that they shouldn’t have survived, not when their mother had stolen something that was theirs. Maglor and Maedhros were protective of things _(people)_ they considered theirs. But something moved the older elves to kindness that night and instead of being killed, they were taken in. _(Maybe it had been the loss of their brothers in battle, the twins, the youngest ones; maybe they decided that enough blood had flowed for one night. Whatever it was, millennia later Elrond would explain that it was the best thing to have happened to him. Right after meeting his wife and children.)_

The journey to Ossiriand was long and cold. Elrond did not recall a great deal of it, but at night when they rested and the cold was especially biting, Maedhros would wrap his great wings around his brother and the twins to shield them from the wind. _(And maybe the brothers were just biding their time and maybe Elrond and Elros would die by their hand regardless, but right then and there none of that mattered. They were safe and warm in a cocoon of feathers and bodies and that was enough.)_

They didn’t die. Instead they lived and learnt. Maedhros taught them to fight, with swords and knives and anything they could get their hands on. Fight dirty, he said. The world isn’t fair so don’t be either. Maglor taught them how to heal. With songs and plants and gentle touches. Knowing how to heal is just as important as knowing how to kill, he explained, eyes lingering on his brother’s scars. _(Elrond passed both lessons on to his children. After all, the world hadn’t changed as much as they had hoped for.)_

Elrond hated, hated, hated the days when nothing could soothe the pain in Maedhros eyes and the only thing they could do was wrap their wings around him and hope he knew they loved him anyways. Maglor’s silver ones curled around Elrond’s brown and Elros’ golden, a useless shield against a harsh world. _(Elrond sometimes wondered whether colour meant anything. If Elros’ fire had been doomed to be snuffed out like a candle, while he remained behind – steady, like the earth beneath their feet – but alone, alone, alone.)_

Elrond lost his parents a second time on a day that should have been victory. Instead the oath beckoned his fathers again and when their claim was rejected it claimed two more lives. So, the last sons of Feanor found their ends. One in a chasm of fire, the other disappearing into the night. _(He didn’t know it then, but Elrond lost a brother that night, too. And with Elros there would be no reunion until Arda was remade at the end of time.)_

 

He hated his new life at the Highking’s court. The other elves didn’t bother hiding their mistrust of the foster-son of Fëanorians and their words followed Elrond wherever he went, piercing his heart like dagger every time. There was no place to hide from their stares, the only thing he could do was make himself as small and uninteresting as possible. _(It would be a few years until Elrond dared to visit Celebrimbor in his workshop to talk about life as Fëanorian children, but when he did it sparked a friendship that lasted a lifetime.)_

Ereinion had not expected to see either of Elwing’s sons ever again and certainly not in the company of his uncle. When Maglor asked him to welcome them to his court, he did so gladly. Even if Elros would never actually stay with him, too busy readying the men who planned to accompany him to Númenor, he felt he owed their parents as much. _(He didn’t speak to his uncle again after this and for all his life he and his father didn’t exchange a single word face to face.)_

Elrond hadn’t meant to stumble into the room like this. He hadn’t even realised it was occupied. And he certainly hadn’t planned on seeing Ereinion’s wings. But today it had just been too much, and he felt like he was drowning in hatred and fear. _(Only in the quietest of nights would he confess to Celebrían the relief that had overcome him at the familiar shade of red, even battered and broken, and the feeling of finally being safe.)_

Ereinion froze when somebody stumbled into his office. He had spent the afternoon with paper work and knowing that it would still be a while before anybody came looking for him again, he decided to stretch his wings for a bit. So, when Elrond was suddenly standing in the room, leaning heavily against the door, he was not prepared for what happened next. _(That didn’t mean he didn’t like it. Oh Valar, he hadn’t known how much he missed the feeling of somebody’s hands on his wings, of someone taking care of him. This hadn’t happened since he left his father’s side.)_

The Highking’s wings were a mess was the last clear thought Elrond had, before his instincts took over. Elros and him had been helping their fathers with wing care since they had learnt how to groom properly. Elrond couldn’t count the number of times he had helped sort out Maedhros’ wings after a fight and it was only natural to do the same for Ereinion’s dishevelled wings. _(Had he been anymore clear-minded, he would have asked for permission first. Touching someone’s wings without permission wasn’t done after all, but at this moment his only concern was to get those familiar red wings back into a semblance of order.)_

Ereinion didn’t know how much time passed while Elrond worked, carefully straightening feathers and combing out loose and broken ones. These need a proper wash, Elrond murmured, trailing off when he took in his surroundings for the first time. A blush crept over the half-elf’s cheeks. _(Ereinion didn’t know why he didn’t cut him off right then and there. Instead he found himself saying they should move to a bathroom then and holding a hand out to Elrond. The younger one took it.)_

Cleaning and oiling the feathers took all night. Elrond believed to have heard a servant putting down some food outside the bathroom door, but he had been too enraptured in his task to pay it much mind. _(Elros had complained about his hyper-focus many times. Usually when he became engrossed in a book and didn’t put it down for hours instead of paying attention to his brother.)_

 

The first rays of sunlight crept through the window when Elrond finally put his washcloth down, smoothing the last drops of oil into the feathers. The red gleamed in the morning sun and when Ereinion heard him whisper that they looked just like his, for the very first time he could believe that maybe this was a good thing.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea sparked from a prompt game my friend (who also beta read) and I sometimes play and was finished at 1 AM this morning. We have spell and grammar checked, but English is not our first language, so if you find any strange phrases or obvious mistakes, please tell so I can fix it.


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